


Him & I

by verovex



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Or Really Whenever You Want, Oswald’s Dreams Are All Our Dreams, Set in S4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 17:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12965148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verovex/pseuds/verovex
Summary: Oswald prefers the alternative his subconscious has conjured, even if it’s nothing more than a sobering reminder of what he could’ve had.





	Him & I

**Author's Note:**

> Titled after [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SA7AIQw-7Ms) song.

There was something _off_ about Oswald’s morning. It might have been the dull haze that was like a film over every step he took, or maybe it was the fact he hadn’t been the only one to sleep in his bed the previous night.

Yet, he had no recollection of it, couldn’t piece together if he had just drank _too_ much, somehow resulting in him unknowingly bringing someone _else_  back to his home. Tried to connect the dots from twelve hours prior, to now. He felt well-rested, jovial even, something that hadn’t been present when he had left the Iceberg Lounge.

The mansion felt different too, that much he could tell. He could smell breakfast wafting its way up the stairs towards him, could hear the faint sounds of music too. No one had cooked at his home in months, not after he refused to re-hire after ‘ _firing_ ’ Olga. Strange then, that he saw her silhouette pass by the crack of his bedroom doorway, while he reached for his robe. His lips spread into a thin line, a tremor of rage running down his spine.

“Ol—“ Oswald started, throwing open the door in its entirety, intent to prove an old theory that _ghosts weren’t real._ Instead the whole front of his face collided with the chest of another, a particularly familiar cologne—fresh, aromatic woodsy notes with _that_ blend of oakmoss and lavender scent—meeting Oswald’s nostrils in an overwhelming flash of nostalgia.

If the whole room hadn’t already seemed like a blur, it did especially now, his vision beginning to tunnel. His hands came up to grip at the elbows of the individual in front of him, only as a means to keep himself grounded, ignoring how much he also needed to ensure they were in fact— _real_.

”I apologize for startling you.” Ed’s voice met his ears, one of his hands resting on Oswald’s hip to help hold him steady. An abstruse wound so deep within Oswald seemed to come undone, his chest heavy with trepidation, his mind working through _where_  his closest knife was, noticing his pockets lacked a specific comforting weight. “You slept in a little longer than normal, I was coming up to see—“

Olga comes into his line of sight, out of one of the guest rooms, cleaning products in hand.

”You!” Oswald snarled, detaching himself from Ed, deciding he’d need to revisit _this_  problem after handling the other one first.

Olga halts, turning towards him as Oswald limped (not noticing the lack of difficulty in doing so) towards her, accusatory finger in the air.

” _You_  are supposed to be _dead!_ ” A sly grin graces his features, “but if we must do it again, so be it! Victor!” Oswald calls, receiving no reply. _Unusual_. “Victor?” Oswald shouts again, twirling on his heel to walk the distance to the assassin’s room, only to collide _again_  with Ed. “You—why—get _out_  of my way.”

Ed gives some attempt at an apology to Olga, stating Oswald hadn’t slept much, the sleep deprivation causing him to assume she was someone else. Ed isn’t really sure if she even understands what he’s said, spewing out something in Russian towards her. Oswald’s brows knit, staring up at his former friend, _since when did he speak Russian?_ Olga scurries off after Ed gives her the day off, gaze coming down to meet Oswald’s glare.

“What were you talking about? Are you feeling well?” Ed shifted closer towards him, placing the back of his hand against Oswald’s forehead. Oswald visibly recoiled, Ed snapping his hand back from the response. He gave Oswald a once-over, hurt washing over his features at their abrupt change in dynamic. “We’re going to be late for the ribbon-cutting.”

”What are _you_  talking about?”

”Down at the orphanage,” Ed makes a distance between them, no doubt attempting to decipher  _what_  was occurring. “I’m still not fond of an alliance shared with Don Falcone’s only remaining child, but you’ve won this argument too many times.”

Oswald’s entire body vibrated on spot, the pieces slowly falling into place. Oh, _oh._  This wasn’t _real._ His mouth hung open comically, snapping it shut as the realization dawned over him.

Ed continues to eye him suspiciously, with a mix of genuine concern. He withdraws from the hallway, mentioning to Oswald he’s laid out clothes for the event in the bedroom, and breakfast is waiting downstairs. 

Even if it’s not real, Oswald can’t prevent the flutter in his chest, can’t help the way his insides twist, the whole mansion rotates on its axis as Oswald grasps this current scenario. There was no clear definition of his status with Ed based on their limited interaction thus far, but he’d be a fool to not read into it. Or, perhaps it was more foolish to be so hopelessly presumptuous. 

Oswald begins to list the differences between this altered reality versus the one he’s come to accept. From the lack of occupants in his home to the _un-_ vandalized painting he had commissioned while mayor, to _new_  paintings featuring a much more prominent Ed at Oswald’s side.

Despite Ivy, both Victors, and Firefly clearly being absent from the home, it felt whole. He doesn’t have an appetite for breakfast, feeling a flip at Ed’s pout as he collects the dishes in an almost dejected manner, bringing them into the kitchen.

”Maybe it would be best to postpone this for another day when you’re feeling up to it,” Ed mentions, coming into the living space to find Oswald leaning against the armrest of the couch, arms crossed, stare particularly vacant towards the inactive fireplace. Ed’s grown impatient towards Oswald’s lack of emotive response so far, deciding to invade the other’s personal space, closing the gap between them, hands at Oswald’s shoulders, shaking them lightly. “Can’t have a distracted Mayor on Gotham’s streets.”

 _Is he still Mayor?_  Oswald’s lips curl into a frown, not providing much of a response as he’s too conflicted by this news, _and_ that Ed has no issue being _this_  close to him, practically pressing into him.

”Have I done something to upset you, Oswald?” Ed’s arms fall to their respective sides, taking a small step back.

”We should get going then.” Oswald offers as a reply, thankful that he can at least corral his thoughts with a proper space between them. Ed nods, the fraction-of-a-second-frown corrected to an unaffected composure, as he outstretches his hand towards Oswald, who hesitates far too long before taking it.

The muddled warmth blends with dread, forcing a rim of tears to collect at the edge of Oswald’s eyes, taking count of the steps he takes to try to refrain from turning into a mess from Ed’s affections. They reach the town car, Bruno at the wheel, one unchanged fact. Ed opens the rear door, with a theatrical flick of his hand to gesture for Oswald to enter first. 

Oswald takes up the middle seat, still full of confusion, but starting to want nothing more than to continue to bask in Ed’s acceptance, to be on the receiving end of more of his tenderness, while Bruno begins the trek to the orphanage. Even if it’s not real, it’s the Ed Oswald has learned to love with everything he can, and this one further solidifies that notion.

It’s this Ed, ever comfortable with their partnership, an arm coming to lace behind Oswald’s shoulders, his cheek coming to rest on Ed’s chest as if this is something they do every day. Fingers card their way through Oswald’s hair, and he nearly melts. If he’s correct, this Ed is the one that sleeps with him underneath satin sheets, the premise  _so_ surreal, yet validated by present ministrations. This Ed starts to prattle on with invaluable advice on matters Oswald’s unaware of since he’d just woken up to this world two hours prior.

At a lack of response, Ed retracts his arm, Oswald releasing a sound from the back of his throat at the break in contact. This Ed hooks two fingers underneath his chin, his other hand coming to grasp Oswald’s tie. “Ozzie, what’s wrong?”

 _All of it._  All of it’s _so wrong._  It’s far too stimulating, and Oswald reverts to counting the seconds as they pass, trying to refrain from getting too attached, eyes sliding shut, in some quiet, _futile_  attempt to find calm. Heaven forbid Ed lets him, any peace knocked off entirely as Ed’s lips meet his, in some practiced dance Oswald doesn’t know the pace to, temporarily frozen by the suddenness. He comes out of his stupor as Ed pulls back, likely feeling defeated by Oswald’s continuous lack of interest.

”Sor—“ Ed starts but is cut off immediately by lips meshing against his, releasing a light chuckle as Oswald moves in an eager tune with him.

Oswald can barely contain himself, his eyes welling with tears again, but ever grateful they’re clenched shut. Can hardly prevent how _happy_  he feels, wondering if this was why he’d woken up feeling so _light_ because in this universe he can trade slow, _beautiful_ kisses with _Ed._  A universe where Ed hadn’t been ripped from him, hadn’t _hated_  him. Where there’s only warmth and absolute harmony with their perfect fit, an elation in the electricity of their lips moving together, feeling the _fire_  from the way Ed’s tongue traces the line of his lips.

Oswald’s hum of utter abashed appreciation for their embrace, coming out as a half-moan into Ed’s mouth as their tongues connect, feeling Ed grip at his waist with the back of his overcoat. Oswald’s own hands preoccupied with pulling Ed closer, wrapping his arms around his neck. The jump of the car over a pothole forcing them even closer, indirectly causing them to tilt back into a stretch across the back seat. Oswald’s content with being unable to breathe, so long as this moment won’t end, Ed leaning over him, adjusting to a more comfortable position with Ed above, a grind shared as their hips connect.

He could _die_ with this as his last memory.

The shrill ringtone of Ed’s cell phone echoes around them, both groaning at the interruption as their lips break apart. Ed doesn’t make a move to answer the call, letting it continue to ring, continuing to loom over Oswald, flushed and out of sorts. It’s the first time Oswald’s ever been graced with such a _look_ , lust and need, for _him_ , of all people. It’s beginning to make him feel small and self-conscious, only heightened by their position.

”Ozzie,” Ed mutters, coming down to rest his lips next to the shell of Oswald’s ear. “The offer of skipping this event is still on the table,” the low tone alone making Oswald see stars, added with the way Ed moves to trail his tongue along the side of his neck, _this event might be entirely out of the question._ Ed pulls back suddenly, much to Oswald’s dismay, laughing lightly at the irritated look on Oswald’s face.

”Why—“ 

”Doesn’t seem fair to win at avoiding this association by appealing to you in _this_  way, I know this truce is more important.” _If only that were true._  “I take it you’re not mad at me.”

”Never.” Oswald replies almost instantly, back resting properly against the seat.

”Good.”

A few minutes pass in a comfortable silence, Oswald took to observing Ed in an adoration he can only do in _these_ moments, in this dimension where it made sense to do so. Green hues memorizing those prominent cheekbones, the elegance of Ed’s smile as he adjusts Oswald’s tie, and then proceeding to fix the dishevelled state of his own hair via the reflection of the car window, as the lights of Gotham’s downtown core further illuminates Ed’s features.

”I love you so much, Ed.” Oswald breathes, total relief washing over him that in this moment, he could say those words without needing them to be an excuse or a means for an escape. They bled from him as a truth, a shared union between the two, that could not be severed, even if this world wasn’t _real,_ it would never change.

The return and acceptance of Oswald’s adulation fiercely pierces through him, worse than any gunshot wound ever could, as Ed grabs one of his wrists, bringing his lips to Oswald’s knuckles in silent acknowledgement, before opening his mouth to reply.

”...”

The words are silent, and it’s even worse that Oswald can see how Ed is forming the reply he so desperately yearns to hear, but no sound is emitted. Then Ed continues, more words that Oswald can’t hear, and it’s not just Ed that starts to feel far away, but everything else too. He can no longer hear the roar of the car’s engine, can’t smell its fumes, Gotham’s lights dimmed from the window.

It’s the knock in the distance, something that irrevocably ruptures Oswald from _this_  state, forces a splintered mass at the center of Oswald’s chest, as the knock gets louder, eventually stops entirely, replaced by the sounds of combat boots walking the expanse towards him.

Oswald’s eyes open, forcing his forehead out of the crook of his arms, albeit slowly and reluctantly. He knows who’s there, but doesn’t want to wake up, doesn’t want to meet this world with an understanding of what he could’ve had. 

“Boss?” Victor calls out, now much more distinct.

Oswald’s weary eyes glance to the bowler hat in front of him, plucking it from the desk and dumping it into an open drawer.

”Knocking Victor—“

”We’ve discussed this.” Victor gibingly interjects, “well, we have a _problem._ ”

Oswald sighs. He had nothing _but_  problems, his dreams the only place with a resolution for a large portion of them.


End file.
